


No Going Back Now

by Worldsgreatestnerd



Series: Murder house...but make it gay. [2]
Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: Drug Use, Graphic Character Death, HOOOHH GUYS, M/M, Suicide, im so sorry, this is dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 17:06:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16268615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Worldsgreatestnerd/pseuds/Worldsgreatestnerd
Summary: “Arguments are normal for relationships. Victor was pretty sure screaming at each other wasn’t.He knew that both of them had parents walk out, so healthy relationships weren’t exactly modeled.Victor had no idea how it started but it boiled down to yelling, with pot shots, low blows and every dig in the book.”Aka how this series gets into the canon timeline.





	No Going Back Now

**Author's Note:**

> Once again thank you Jae for helping me with my garbage. 
> 
> Do note that this chapter is bloody and dark, involving suicide and death. Read at your own risk and if it’s not your scene please don’t read.

Arguments are normal for relationships. Victor was pretty sure screaming at each other wasn’t. 

He knew that both of them had parents walk out, so healthy relationships weren’t exactly modeled. 

Victor had no idea how it started but it boiled down to yelling, with pot shots, low blows and every dig in the book. 

They stared at each other, huffing in silence. The silence came to a literal screaming halt as Constance yelled up the stairs. 

“TATE LANGDON! Get down here now!” She yelled. 

Tate rolled his eyes, shoving past Victor as he left, slamming the door behind him. Victor huffed, eyes burning with tears he was holding in. 

He understood why Tate was upset with him, but it was long past that now. It was just mud slinging and every part of his chest hurt, lungs burning in a sharp stinging cocktail of anger and sadness. 

The mixture biting wrath and liquid sorrow left Victor raw, tears of bitterness rolling down his cheeks. 

He shook his head, trying to move past the insurmountable smog of his own ire, skin screaming for release. 

Frantically he searched for Tate’s lunch box under his bed, he needed something, anything, to take the edge off of the feeling. 

He knew what he did wrong. The mirror and every breath was a reminder of his dumbass decisions.

It only solidified that he really wasn’t worth anything without Tate. Just another strung out junkie, a fucking stereotype and statistic about low income families. He was nothing. 

Coke was expensive, when Victor ran out he just had to find another outlet of letting go. He’d already dulled too many razors cutting himself and at that point he needed something else. At the time getting his ass kicked by the football team didn’t sound that bad. 

Perhaps he was just being selfish, he should’ve called Tate, should’ve told him to come back from vacation. Instead he used the quarters he found for some food, it was the choice of passing out from hunger or calling Tate and why couldn’t he understand that. 

The rich fuck never knew the choice, he never understood the guilt of being alive when you have no money to your name, the feeling of every dollar spent on any essential was being wasted when it came to you. 

He shook the lunchbox, cursing in the attempt that it would aide him. He pried with his thin fingers to no avail. 

Then the thing flew open, sending dime bags all over the floor. 

“Fuck!” Victor said, throwing his head back in exasperation. 

The door opened at the clatter, Addie standing on the other side. 

Shit. She didn’t need to see this. 

“Oh! You spilled! I do that a lot. Let me help.” She said, padding over to him with a wide smile. 

She got on her hands and knees next to him, one by one picking up the bags of coke, blissfully unaware of what they were. 

“Addie, you really don’t have to help.” Victor dismissed, scrounging more up and dropping them into the lunchbox.

She shook her head and kept her pace, contently picking them up one by one and dropping them in one by one. 

“I am fine. I like to help, mom says helping will make me pretty.” She said grabbing the last couple under the bed. 

The words stung Victor. What a raging bitch of a woman to tell her daughter that. 

“Y’know, Addie. I think you’re pretty, being helpful is just a perk.” He said flicking the box shut, sliding it back under the bed. 

She furrowed her brow at him. 

“I thought you hated pretty girls.” She said looking up at him quizzically. “I saw you get upset when Tate talked about a pretty girl.” 

Victor laughed, shaking his head. He stood up and helped Addie up as well. 

“I don’t hate pretty girls. Thank you for helping me.” He said, trying to end the conversation. 

She smiled at him, putting her hand out. 

“Here’s the last one, forgot to give it to you.” She said before leaving in a hurry. 

Victor sighed, shutting the door behind her. He examined the dime bag, considering it for whatever reason. 

He pulled his sketchbook from Tate’s desk and razor from his drawer. He hurriedly made lines and snorted as fast as he could, just wanting to override the shit storm inside him. Carefully he stashed the razor in his back pocket. 

He didn’t care about Constance and Tate arguing downstairs. All he felt was his skin buzzing, his brain kicking into gear once more. He sat on Tate’s bed, rubbing his eyes, wiping the tears away 

Then it hit him. 

The world fell flat, everything gone for a moment, then roaring back to life. A brutalization of the senses. The sunlight screamed at him, his head heavy. 

His stomach roiled, gurgling like something was wrong. Coke did not do this. 

The hallway felt never ending as he stumbled to the bathroom, head throbbing as Tate and Constance argued. His whole chest screamed, sticky and stabbing pain expanding across his torso. 

Once he reached the bathroom he collapsed against the sink, vomiting blood in a spray, his mouth burning as he did so. His blood was bitter, acidic, it threw itself through his throat, leaving the feeling of glass shards behind. 

Tears steadily streamed down his face, blood vessel bursting in his face as the pressure of throwing up overcame him. He sobbed out, nearly impossible with his shortness of breath. 

Still no relief. His body was burning, his head pounding, an unfounded pain engulfed him like a flame. 

His organs were heavy, something he’d never felt before. 

He choked on a cry of pain, hands white knuckling at the sink, clutching for all it was worth. 

Everything was wrong, wrong, wrong. His body was convulsing slightly, more blood spilled out as he couldn’t help but vomit. 

Victor could barely think, his thoughts clouded by the suffocating pain. 

He needed this over, now. Nothing compared to this, nothing. 

Is this how’d he die? Choking on blood, another addict, still angry at the world and at Tate, his Tate. It was too late now, he was staring death in his stupid face, he wasted his life on drugs and booze, lonely and unloved. 

He knew he’d die young but as he looked in the mirror above the sink he never thought he’d look so frightened. He thought he could choose, perhaps prepare but instead he was alone in his boyfriend’s bathroom, choking on blood, organs failing, hemorrhaging. He was a dying man, completely wasted what small value of life given to him.

He was alone. He didn’t want to be alone. He wanted to call out for Tate but the blood choking him and the screaming downstairs prevented any noise he could’ve made. 

“Die on your own terms.” A voice whispered. 

It came from nowhere, the voice. He surely was hallucinating now. 

Still the voice was right, he wasn’t going to die like a rat in the gutter, he could go on his own terms. Quickly and less painful than the suffocation of organs shutting down. 

His hands fumbled for the razor in his pocket, almost slipping as he let go of the sink.

Without another thought he dragged the razor deep upwards to him, blood immediately spilling out. He followed suit with his other arm, shaking as he cried out. 

This was what was next, of course, all his life he’d been chasing the reason to finish the job and finally allow himself to destroy himself. 

It was quick, and he was past the point of no return.

He didn’t want to die. 

He didn’t want to die he had a brother to get home to, he promised he’d be home tonight. 

Oh god there was so much blood, so much blood, too much blood. He grabbed at the cuts but it was pouring too quickly, it was futile. 

He shook as he stared in the mirror, his eyes red with tears of fear, gasping one last breath before he collapsed. 

 

Tate stood over Victor’s pale and limp corpse. He’d rushed up there as soon as he heard the thud, but truly nothing could prepare him for the sight. 

Blood was splayed like his limbs, puddled around him, coating him. Tears still stained his cheeks, once beautiful green eyes glassy as they stared emptily at nothingness. 

He huffed for breath. The cuts were erratic, deep, angry, frantic. His heart raced but still nothing pooled in him, no emotion, no tears. 

Did he do this over him? 

He crouched next to Victor, he trailed his fingers across Victor’s still warm face. He traced the scar that streaked across the bridge of his nose, the stitches in his eyebrows, under his black eye. How tender he looked, all emotion gone, just simply there. 

Tate touched his own cheeks, he was crying. Why? He felt nothing. 

With a sigh he stood up, grabbing Victor’s limp and cold hands, clammy and lifeless from the blood loss. 

He drug his body from the bathroom, outside stood Moira, her face sullen. 

“He...he deserved better. Your family is a cancer on all those you encounter.” She said. 

Tate glared at her, that was one hell of a way to comfort. 

“Just, clean it up.” He snapped. 

She nodded, eyes melancholy as she stared at Victor’s face. How beautiful he was, still so slender and pretty, feminine almost. 

Tate continued his task, carrying his body down with a heavy and bassy “clunk, clunk, clunk.” as his head smacked every stair. 

With great heft he drug him across the lawn, the heavy California sun beaming down on them. Finally he left him on the sidewalk just outside the gates. 

Tate stared at his body once more, a pang of sadness barely rose in him, before he turned away and headed to his room. Victor was the only thing between him and his destiny, Victor had saved himself from this God awful world and now it was his turn to save everyone else. It was time, he was ready. 

A noble war was to be won. 

 

Victor held his knees tightly to his chest as he watched Tate sit deadly still, not even flinching as the door was kicked down. 

He could barely see him from the slats of the closet. Victor knew Tate wouldn’t see him anyway but he hid himself just in case. 

The SWAT team rushed in, still Tate didn’t move, only standing up when they commanded him to. 

Victor could barely look, to see all those guns pointed at a man he once loved. 

Then Tate moved, grabbing for something he couldn’t see and his body was littered with bullets, making him collapse onto the ground, instantaneous death. 

Victor clasped over his mouth, restraining his urge to scream. He’d seen people get shot before, nothing compared to this, watching his body destroyed in a blink of an eye. 

As quietly as he could, he crawled on his hands and knees past the SWAT team. He knew they couldn’t see him, but he couldn’t bring himself to stand. 

Nothing could stop the sob that escaped Victor’s lips, hands grabbing at Tate’s lifeless face, so full of hatred and unforgiving anger. Even in death was he filled with unending wrath, Victor wished his face could just be peaceful. 

Frantically he tried to push his blood matted curls off his face, but in this state he could do nothing. 

“What’d you do, Tate?” He whispered as he laid his head on Tate’s bullet torn chest, “what did you do?” 

He let himself cry only momentarily, knowing full well what he had done, how his own body had been discovered by the SWAT on their way in. 

Tate was no man, no human he could love. 

Tate was a monster, a the worst thing Victor had ever done. He was an easily addictive drug packaged in an angelic smile. 

Victor knew he was an addict, a gutter rat junkie, but even he couldn’t stand for everything. 

He sat up, wiping his tears from his face. Sooner or later Tate would realize he was dead, remember Victor and come looking for him. 

Victor knew what he had to do. He had to cut the septic arm, he couldn’t let Tate poison him longer. 

He was going to find where Tate could never find him, where no one would know he was there, and never leave. 

Victor was going to the basement.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank YOU reader for making it through this. Comments and kudos are appreciated.


End file.
